Scars
by Elialys
Summary: They talked about their scars. They talked about the visible ones, and about those which weren’t. Without much surprise, she had more visible marks than he had, but it didn’t really matter.' GSR
1. Even when the wound heals

**N/A**: The Season Premiere airing in two weeks now, I'm sure everybody is tired of reading Post-LD fics. But I had to write my own, because, well, LD was quite a milestone in their relationship .'

Anyway, you don't have to worry a lot because this is a two parts fic, and the first one is not about Sara's abduction ;-)

Lisa (Mingsmommy), you are wonderful. Thank you so very much for your help

**Spoilers**: Up to 7x24 : "Living Doll

**Category**: Angst/Romance

**Pairing**: GSR

**Rating**: Teen

**Disclaimer**: 'CSI' and all its characters belong to Anthony Zuiker, CBS and Alliance Atlantis. No copyright infringement is intended.

**Scars**

Part One: Even when the wound heals...

_A high mirror covered the bathroom's door._

_A long fissure split it, almost horizontally._

_The day her mother had harshly hit the other side of the door, cracking the mirror behind, the irregular line was crossing Sara's reflection at shoulder height. She remembered she had spent some time studying it, later that night, her index brushing over the slightly rough texture of the broken glass, feeling the tiny split under her touch._

_The crack traced a line across her stomach now, exactly over her belly button. She had grown up a lot during the summer. Her body had begun to change._

_Not only her body._

_She'd stayed under the hot water for a long time, and the room was filled with steam. The mirror was now covered with condensation._

_She used to avoid looking at her reflection every time she got out of the shower, unable to bear the image it was giving her. She was changing, her body was changing, her father was changing._

_She didn't want all those changes._

_She wanted the curves to disappear, so she could curl up again, forgotten by the rest of her family. Her body was now a traitor whose image she couldn't stand._

_But today, as she escaped the shower, immediately wrapping a towel around her steaming body, her eyes slid over the mirror in front of her, and this time, she didn't avoid the image._

_Her reflection was blurred._

_The steam had softened the shapes of everything reflected in the glass, her included._

_She moved closer, until she stood less than two feet away from the door. She could see the outline of her eyes, but not the anxiety or the uneasiness in them, nor the strange detachment covering the other emotions. She could see the outline of her eyebrows, nose and mouth. She could still see the excessive rosy color of her skin, having spent too much time under the hot water; but she couldn't see where her skin was grazed, as she had rubbed it too vigorously._

_Quietly, the towel slid on the floor, exposing her naked and slightly quivering body, despite the warmth of the room._

_And a shiver of relief went through her body as she studied her blurred reflection._

_The curves were gone._

_Sara was only twelve, but she was smart enough to know that what she was seeing right now was nothing but a blurred and false image of reality._

_And yet, she comforted herself in the hope provided by this shapeless body._

_So she stayed still, her eyes locked on the fissure crossing her foggy stomach. She stared at the dark line, again and again, barely blinking._

_And then, as she was hypnotized by this invisible border, the steam started to vanish slowly, faster near the crack. And doing so, her skin reappeared._

_Her whole body was made of smoke but this belt of flesh. She felt like the split was sucking her in. Yes, the split widened, spread, and she was drawn, snapped up by this growing gulf in her stomach, and suddenly, this shapeless body wasn't hers anymore._

_No skin enveloped her, she was nothing but a dark abyss, and she was falling faster than ever. She was falling so fast! She didn't want to fall, not anymore!_

_Suddenly, the palm of her right hand hit the mirror, and with a quick gesture, almost desperate, she wiped the steam away, making her face reappear._

_She looked deep inside her eyes, reconnecting with herself. Almost unconsciously, she raised her left arm, wrapping it around her blooming breasts. And when her legs stopped shaking enough to keep her on her feet, her right hand left the mirror, and her arm came around herself._

"_Saraaa..." Her father's voice came through the other side of the door, alcohol piercing in his low tone._

_She wrapped her arms tighter, as tight as she could._

_And she closed her eyes, her face distorted by a pain she didn't fully understand._

OoOoOoOoO

White or pink, the occasional angry red. Flat or raised, smooth or puckered.

Sara Sidle and Gil Grissom were covered with scars.

There were those drawn on their skin in white or rosy lines, evidence of an old wound, sometimes blurred, rarely forgotten.

There were those running through their souls. So many fissures painfully filled up, which had made them who they were. They will never totally disappear, but were hidden well enough to be invisible to the naked eye.

But the eye of the loved one was never naked.

They talked about their scars.

It began innocently (enough). Lost between the warmth of the sheets, drunk on each other, intoxicated by the taste of her skin, the texture of his body, the smell of her hair, the perfection of his hands, the taste of her lips.

The meeting of their naked skin and whole bodies was still something relatively new, and each experiment brought back the same question and realization:

How could have they survived without each other for so long?

Because it was clear now that they would never be able to live without each other again. They were completing themselves, and nothing had ever felt this _right_ and perfect before. Ever.

And Grissom was truly delighting himself with every inch of skin she was offering to him, and was resolute not to forget a single one.

That's why he stopped, as he was covering the whole length of her left leg with kisses, when he discovered the small white mark on her calf, and asked with curiosity how she'd got this one.

"A race in the wood, with some boys from my street. I still managed to win."

For the next scar, her answer was:

"A slap from my father, sent me into a sharp table corner."

When she saw the rising guilt in his eyes, and his sudden dumbness, she took the lead, and quickly found a scar she could question him about.

And it became a habit. When one of them discovered a scar, the other explained how they'd gotten it, and vice versa.

They talked about the visible ones, and about those which weren't. Without much surprise, she had more visible marks than he had, but it didn't really matter.

Because without much surprise either, his invisible scars, she found them anyway.

And together, they were healing their wounds.

OoOoOoOoO

_If he hadn't gone to Tommy Gordon's birthday, Gil would never have broken the glass._

_Because every thing began there._

_The other kids didn't like Gil. It was easy to think that the feeling was completely shared, but it wasn't. Gil didn't _dislike_ his schoolmates. He just found them...intriguing. He liked to stand aside and watch rather than participate, and by doing so, he was said to be antisocial and withdrawn. Which, in a way, was true; but HE knew what it was all about._

_For example, in all modestly knew that he was smarter than the other kids. At six years old, he had finally started going to school. But what he was doing there, and what he was "learning", he had known it all for a long time. So in class and during activities, not wanting to show himself, he was doing what he loved the best: quiet observation._

_His school-teacher knew he was smart, and thought he was shy. His classmates thought he was uninteresting, way too serious, and just plain weird. During recess, he was always chosen last,_ _because he ran too slow. If you had asked him why he was slow, he'd have said that it was because he was calculating the statistics and probability of victory. But nobody ever asked, so he didn't say a word, and calmly continued to be ignored by the others._

But in every respectful neighbourhood, there were some rules that you just cannot escape, even if you were the least popular kid around.

_And going to a birthday party was one of those rules._

_Birthday parties. Where you had to go with a silly present and this hideous bow tie that Mommy always put around your neck because you were so cute with it._

_Tommy Gordon had celebrated his birthday the day before and Gil was invited, of course. He had shown up. With the stupid present and the hideous bow tie. And from that action had resulted three reactions:_

_One of those rare 'manly' hand-to-hand fights, completely belittling, but obligatory under the circumstances. _

_A lecture from his dad._

_And above all, an experiment, which he was just about to put into practice._

_Sitting legs crossed on the living room couch, Gil was sipping his glass of milk, and seemingly absorbed in one of the rare TV program of the day. But if his eyes were focused on the black and white images, their blurred aspect was proving that his mind was on something else._

_Underneath his skull, his brain's cogs were working at top speed, making the necessary correlations and deductions for the realization of his experiment._

_It had begun when Tommy had made fun of Mommy. Gil was used to the other kids' cruelty; they regularly took a vicious pleasure in playing a game called 'Let's go annoy Gil'. It was mostly verbal attacks, rarely physical, because he knew how to defend himself if he had to. But he couldn't bear for his Mommy to be involved in that stupid boyishness. Yes, Mommy was different, he knew it very well. Yes, at home, they used their hands instead of their mouths, and so what? He'd never doubted that despite her disability, she was as much loving as any other mom._

_But Tommy had dared to make fun of her, and tried to shake his certainties._

_So of course, when the kid had ridiculously mimed the signs that Mommy had made when she had dropped him, wickedly imitating the sounds which sometimes escaped her mouth without knowing it, Gil hadn't hesitated a single second. He had charged._

_He'd hit Tommy, Tommy had hit the table. The impact caused two of the glasses to fall and break on the floor, soon joined by Tommy, Gil still attached._

Eventually, they'd been separated by adults. Tommy's mom had gone completely hysterical when she'd seen the bloody hands of her baby, and immediately called a doctor –even if it appeared that the cuts were just superficial. Her second immediate phone call had been for someone to come and take away the delinquent who'd dared to touch her dear son, and who was obviously just as whacko as the entire Grissom family. 

_In spite of his exaggerated sobs and his mom's hysteria, Tommy had managed to stop his tears long enough to shoot him a cruel and victorious smile, before he whispered to him:_

"_See, __**I**__ have real mum."_

_Luckily for him, the doctor had arrived right at that moment, preventing another collision._

_Daddy had quickly followed, and together, they'd left the house, crushed under the shocked and reproving looks. He had not shouted at Gil. Daddy never shouted, never raised a hand to him. But strangely enough, his disappointed look was even worse than a slap or booming anger. When he asked Gil to explain his behaviour, his voice when he'd answered was low and full of shame. But it was also a little challenging, proving that he didn't regret having defended Mommy. And Daddy had understood, somehow. And then came the lecture, and the punishment, which consisted of helping Daddy in his conservatory every evening until next vacation. And they'd agreed on the fact that it was not necessary for Mommy to know about this incident._

_And a day later, he found himself with a mind on fire, staring at his glass of milk with interest._

_Because he was going to prove Tommy Gordon that Mommy was exactly like any other mom. That just because she couldn't hear the sound of his voice didn't mean that she loved him less. And not being able to prove that to Tommy face to face, he was at least going to prove it to himself, once and for all._

_Dragging his eyes away from the glass, he looked to his left, towards the kitchen, and watched for a while as Mommy was ironing the clean laundry._

_And then, still looking at her, he extended his arm, and dropped the glass._

_It hit the floor, and just as he expected it to do, broke in a thousand pieces._

_He stared at Mommy, waiting for a reaction, any reaction. But she didn't even blink. However, she eventually raised her eyes from her task, surely feeling his glare. And when she met her son's eyes, a tender smile spread on her lips, this smile he loved so much, the one crackling in her blue eyes, and which made him feel like nothing wrong would ever happen to him. He returned her smile, and she put her eyes and mind back to the laundry._

Somewhere inside of him, he knew that this smile was exactly the answer he'd been looking for. But the child that he was wanted more at this instant.

_So, he slid to the floor, kneeling over the mess, his pants absorbing the milk. Full of confidence, he grabbed a piece of glass, and studied it for a few seconds, turning it between his fingers. And then, with determination, he slowly closed his left fist around the sharp piece. He took a deep breath, and tightened his hold, as tight as he could._

_It hurt of course, and almost immediately, tears of pain invaded his eyes, which he quickly closed. But he forced himself to count to ten before loosening his fist, and it seemed to be the longest seconds of his life. When he finally dropped the glass and opened his eyes, his fingers were spattered with blood. It dripped on the parquet, mingling with the milk. And he was sincerely shocked by the image. _

_Shocked by what he had just done, because it was completely stupid, and it really, _really_ hurt._

But just when he was about to give up and let out the sob that was blocking his throat, ready to run to Mommy, a thud and a throaty sound came from his left, in the kitchen. He turned his head to see his mom running towards him, completely panicked. Within a minute, she had wrapped one of the warm linens around his bloody wound, and carried him to the car.

_Once again, he had succeeded. Mommy was reacting exactly as he had wanted her to. Like every loving and caring mum._

_And for the first time in his life, what he felt wasn't a modest and delectable pride, but a sharp guilt full of shame._

OoOoOoOoO

It's been several minutes now since Sara's fine fingers had started to absent-mindedly play with those of his left hand, and it wasn't until she asked the question that he really noticed it.

"I always wondered how you got these scars."

He dragged his eyes away from the screen, intrigued by her question. Comfortably installed on the couch, she was cozily nestled against him (not to say half sprawled on). He had wrapped his left arm around her waist, and was realizing that she'd spent most of the time studying his hand rather than focussing on the movie.

"Which ones?" he asked with a small smile, loving the small frown of curiosity on her forehead, and the pursing of her lips, as she didn't take her eyes from his hand.

"These." She answered, lightly tracing tiny lines inside his palm and fingers. He forced himself to stop looking at her face long enough to see which marks she was pointing at.

He smiled sadly when the memory of the wound came back, a little tarnished by all these years gone by since then, and eventually answered: "It's the result of one of my experiment. A painful one, I have to say. I was six years old, and I was ready to do anything in order to prove that I was right, even if it meant suffering. And don't say that I haven't changed." He quickly added when she raised her head, the reply ready to escape her lips.

She closed her mouth again, chuckling softly, and her eyes were sparkling when she asked:

"And what did you managed to prove, Mr Grissom, as the proud six year old you were?"

For a second –or maybe it was ten or thirty- he didn't answer, losing himself in the shining gleam in her eyes, finding it hard to concentrate with the feel of their fingers, which had started interlacing again, more slowly, more sensually.

And barely a few millimetres was separating their lips when he murmured his answer:

"That a manis ready to do anything to be loved by the woman he loves."

OoOoOoOoO

_His mom, and their entire neighborhood, had always thought that he hadn't understood what was happening, at least not until he'd been to the hospital with her, hearing the terrible reality from the doctor himself._

_The whispers were all the same:_

"_Thank God, the kid didn't realize it immediately. Can you imagine, how traumatizing it must be, knowing that you've watched the TV with your father's body on the couch?"_

_But what he'd never said to his mom was that he knew. He knew all along._

_He had heard it long before his mother arrived in the living room and tried, helplessly, to wake her husband up. Long before she sent him to their neighbour's, completely panicked, so they could call an ambulance for her. She'd kept him away from the room then, from his dad, until they were at the hospital. Where, according to her, he had found out about his father's death. That he'd denied the painful truth up to that moment, as he stood in this hall stinking with antiseptic, yes, without a doubt. But he had known it all along because he'd been able to _hear_ it._

_Perhaps it was because he lived half of the time inside a silent word that he was so aware of every little noise around him. Or maybe it was because he knew that his mom's disease was hereditary, which meant that one day, months, years, or decades from now, he wouldn't hear a thing anymore._

_The fact was that he had great hearing, and that detail mattered __a lot__ to him._

_And that day, as he was watching a baseball match with his dad, and his dad had 'fallen asleep,' it hadn't been long before he understood that something was off. Because when his dad was sleeping, he snored. Not loudly, but it was impossible to miss the hiss escaping his mouth with every deep breath he was taking, at least not for Gil._

_And that day, there had been no hiss, not even the slightest one._

He first understood it in his gut.

His eyes were still fixed on the screen, but his ears had noticed that something was wrong, that something was missing. And a loud alarm began to scream in his head, but he tried to ignore it.

When this feeling of 'wrong' increased considerably, giving him goose-bumps, he still refused to turn around and take a look at his dad.

It was understandable. He knew deep inside that it wasn't normal, at all. And he didn't want to confirm his fears. He simply wanted to keep watching this game, their game; and when it would be over, they would have dinner with mom, commenting on the game between bites of food, so they could use their hands.

But soon, too soon, this uneasiness, this unspeakable terror, became stronger than anything else, and he was unable to stay immobile one more second.

And then, he turned around, preparing himself as much as he could to have a horrific vision.

But what he saw was nothing more than his dad, sleeping peacefully on the couch.

But Gil wasn't stupid. Unfortunately.

"Dad?" he called out softly. No answer (of course). A sting of panic. "Daddy?" More pressing and still no answer. Wave of acid in his stomach.

He tried again, twice, three, six, ten times. The silence alone replied, which was only broken by the shouting of the crowd, from the game. His game.

Eventually, he turned away from the sleeping form, putting his eyes back on the screen.

He started squeezing his fists, hard. He squeezed until his muscles hurt, until his nails dug in his skin –and yet they were short. But he ignored the pain.

And he began to bite his lip, the right corner, as he always did when he was nervous. Or angry. Or panicked. Or whatever feeling you could have when you understood that your father will never open his eyes again.

Except that this time, he bit hard. His canines imprisoned the flesh, and pressed harder, and harder. And the pain was shooting, but real. He squeezed, and squeezed tighter, until he felt something warm drip on his chin.

He took out his handkerchief, and put it on the wound. With the tip of his tongue, he understood that the cut was deep, and that a stitch might be needed. But he also knew that when his mom entered the room, anytime now, she'd have some graver concerns than to give a damn about a bloody lip.

Whatever.

He would have a scar.

OoOoOoOoO

Sara entered the bathroom staggering a little, her breathing unsteady.

She by-passed the door, and with both hands, pushed it until it closed with a snap. Her clammy palms slowly slid over the mirror's smooth surface, creating an unpleasant and unbearable squeak. When her hands finally left the glass, they were quickly replaced by her forehead. It's the coldness against her skin that made her notice the fever.

Why did she have a fever?

She couldn't concentrate, she couldn't think. Because of the complete numbness of her limbs. Because of the uninterrupted buzz inside her head. Because of the violent heartbeats against her ears. Because of this wretched nausea gripping her stomach, making her beg not to vomit.

She didn't want to throw up. Please, not now, not now, not now, she didn't want to throw up, please.

The nausea.

That was the reason she had a fever.

Why was she nauseous, then?

Because...Because...

It all came back to her in a gun shot, a stab in the heart (literally speaking, sickly enough). All she had managed to forget in the dark corridor, during the time it had taken for her to come from the bedroom to the bathroom. She saw everything again as if she was back in there.

She was nauseous because...Because her father had wanted too much. Because her mother had stopped him by thrusting a knife in his body (several times). Because there was so much blood, so, so much blood, and because she hadn't been able to stop the flow, and yet she'd tried, she had really, really tried! Because the smell had been unbearable, and because the smell, oh that smell, it had followed her in her shelter.

She suddenly opened her eyes. Taking herself from the door, she looked at her hands. Red.

Putting her eyes on the mirror, she saw both trails that her fingers had left on the glass, and realized that if her hands were clammy, it wasn't caused by sweat.

And when she looked past the dark trails and saw her reflection, her own image made her sick stomach jump. And because her parents had at least succeeded in giving her some good rules during her messy childhood, she managed to reach the sink before she emptied her stomach.

But the hiccups shaking her body didn't stop. On the contrary, they increased, her loud and erratic breathing resounding between the walls, premise of tearless sobs.

She couldn't do it anymore, it was too much, way too much, she wasn't in control of anything, she didn't understand anything anymore. She just wanted this to stop, everything had to stop, now, it was enough! Enough!

All of the sudden, she grabbed the pumice stone that was on the edge of the basin, and with all her strength, she threw it against the mirror.

The sound of the explosion pierced the air, but the glass didn't shatter on the floor. A large cracked halo spread across the surface, and new fissures appeared from the old one.

But the mirror was still there.

Why wouldn't it break?

**WHY???!!**

She found herself hitting the glass as hard as she could, screaming "why?" again and again through her sobs. Until the halo broke eventually. Until most of the mirror was on the floor.

Until she found herself curled up in the shower, holding her bloody right hand against her chest, shaken by violent and now tearless sobs.

Until some neighbors finally called the police, the number of screams from the Sidles having exceeded its usual quota that night. Especially the kid's.

Until her life ended at last, and began again.

Somehow.

OoOoOoOoO

She'd always been captivated by his lips.

She had this clear memory of their first meeting, when he'd suggested that they should continue their discussion over a cup of coffee. And while he spoke, her gaze had literally been hanging on his lips.

It had been sincerely innocent and platonic at first.

There was such passion in his voice, such fervor, she couldn't help but inhaling every single word that was escaping his mouth. And she liked the fact that she could act like this without freeing the primitive animal hidden in him.

But truth being told, after some time, she would have been more than willing for the primitive animal to free itself.

But he'd been the perfect gentleman.

He had never tried to take advantage of the powerful and unmistakable sexual tension that was surrounding them, when she would have given up everything for him. When she actually had given up everything for him.

Yes, for almost seven years, he did absolutely nothing at all.

But it didn't really matter, because after the wait came the reward. She'd discovered that his lips excelled in different kinds of passion.

She had never lost herself so completely and desperately in a man's kisses, whether they'd been laid on her mouth or on her body.

But with him...

His lips caressed her skin, and her entire body covered with goose-bumps. They found her most sensitive and receptive spots, and made her shudder, then made her moan. And even when they nested in the crook of her neck, they eventually found their way up to her ear. And the words they whispered had the same effect on her soul that they'd had on her body.

She had quickly noticed the tiny scar on the right corner of his lower lip. It was barely visible, hidden by the curve of his mouth; if she hadn't had the chance to explore his lips so thoroughly, she might have never found it.

And until now, she had never asked him the question. It wasn't because she was afraid to discover that in the past, he'd had such a passionate partner that she couldn't restrain herself from giving him a little souvenir, or any other reason of that kind.

And she asked him today almost randomly.

She'd been awake for some time now, and was simply watching his relaxed sleeping face. She knew from his breathing he wasn't asleep, though. Like her, he preferred to remain quiet, keeping the safe feeling that they were in a bubble. Soon, too soon, the bubble will burst, and they will have to go back to the real world; but they still had time.

He was letting her watch him, as she sometimes let him watch her.

Her right hand finally reached up to his face; she was unable to keep looking at him much longer without contact, even the slightest. Her fingers slid over his cheek, which she had shaved barely two days ago. She loved him as much with or without his beard, but it always was a pleasure to feel his bare skin against hers again.

She let her fingers wander over his face, gently brushing over the small scars he'd got throughout his life, and which he'd talked to her about. And it warmed her heart, just knowing that he'd got this small mark on his left temple in High School, when his Lab partner was unable to carefully measure dangerous substances. Or the origin of this whitish scar on his chin –well, she didn't really know the whole story, but it implied a high testosterone level-, or that one near his scalp – a crime scene badly secured by a young and incompetent cop.

He had opened his eyes under her touch, proving he was indeed awake, but she had yet to meet his gaze. He let her continue her silent exploration, watching her just as seriously and tenderly, until she eventually direct her attention to his lips. Her finger drew the tiny line hidden there.

"How did you get that one?" she murmured.

She finally locked eyes with him, and was instantly caught by the intensity in them. For a second, she allowed herself to get lost in the feelings it created in her; those delicious butterflies in her stomach; the momentary halt of her heart; this shiver running through her back, a mixture between beginning desire and affection for him so powerful it almost hurt.

His lips curled up in an amused and tender smile, and his voice wasn't louder than hers when he replied: "I was wondering when you'd notice it."

She chuckled softly, unable to stop her own grin, her palm resting on his warm cheek again.

"Oh, I noticed it long ago." She teased. Beneath the sheets, she rubbed her toes against his calf, obliging their legs to cross, then to interlace; doing so, it considerably and deliciously increased the contact between their bodies. "I was just waiting for the right time to ask."

He didn't ask why she thought now was the right time. He didn't have to. He slipped his arm around her waist, dragging her closer to him, intoxicating both of them a little more with every passing second with their closeness, the exhilarating and so comfortable warmth of their bodies.

He leaned his forehead against hers, and closed his eyes. For a second, he allowed himself to get lost in the feelings invading his entire body and soul. This feeling of well-being and absolute trust that he had discovered the day he'd let her enter his life, totally and absolutely. This deep-rooted need to blend himself into her -without any sexual allusion- completely, helplessly. Because he couldn't make it anymore without the feel of her skin, without her smell, without everything that she was, her aura as much as her soul.

He finally opened his eyes again, and so did she, eventually. Her gaze was slightly blurred, as his must be. When he spoke, there was no hesitation in his voice:

"I got this scar when my father died."

A strong emotion filled up her eyes, but it wasn't pity. It was real compassion, mixed with some worry. She knew how and when his father died, and what consequences and impact it had had on his life at that time. She nestled a little more against him.

"I bit my lip. I bit it until it started to bleed. It seems crazy and thoughtless now, but back then, I just wanted to...I don't know. It was incomprehensible. I had anger and resentment against him for being gone so suddenly, against myself for having those feelings. And I just wanted to feel a pain that I could..."

"That you could control..." she murmured, and he slowly nodded, slightly surprised. "A pain that you had caused yourself, which you could stop if you wanted to, and which was above all able to cover, even for a short amount of time, this other uncontrollable, unbearable sharp and shooting pain."

His surprised had faded away, replaced by a sad understanding. He knew she was referring to her own past, and it grabbed his heart painfully.

She slightly moved away from him, lifting her right hand, which had been resting on his chest, up to his eyes so he could see her palm.

Looking closely, he noticed the light white marks blending with the lines of her hand, taking shape on the bottom of her palm.

He frowned. For a second, he thought that it was the scar from the cut she'd got during the lab's explosion. But he quickly remembered that this one was on her left hand.

He slid his eyes back to hers.

"When my father died, I locked myself in the bathroom." She whispered. "And I broke the mirror. I broke it almost with my bare hands, until it was completely shattered on the floor. Until my hand hurt badly enough for me to forget just for a second what I had just seen." She let out an empty laugh, and her voice slightly broke when she added: "It's funny the stupid things that we can do when our parents die. When we're in pain."

He was unable to say anything, then. Unable to think properly, shaken by a new wave of feelings dazing him. Completely numbed by his old pain emerging from his core; by Sara's. By theirs.

Now more than ever, he knew that this bond between them was rare, indescribable and more powerful than anything he had ever felt in his life, or would ever feel again, and he wanted it to never, never, never end.

And no words were needed to know if these feelings were shared.

They knew it in the way their lips found each other, desperately. In the way their hands got lost on skin, in hair. In the way their bodies claimed each other, looked for each other, found each other.

And they knew it when their souls met, during this fleeting and yet so powerful instant. This instant when everything stopped and vanished. When the same prayer was emanating from every single cell of their beings…

Please, never, ever let this end.

Six weeks later, Sara disappeared.

End of Part One

TBC

**N/A:** The second part will be all about Sara's abduction, during and after the event. So bear with me if you dare :p


	2. the scars remains

**Rambling A/N: **First of all, a huuuuge THANK YOU for the amazing response to the first part, you made my month, guys!D

And then, I know I said that this fic would be a two parts story. Obviously, it had become a three part story now .' This fic has been written in my head for three looong months, and now, I can't managed to finish it because my ideas are bigger on paper than I expected, and I would never, ever have been able to finish it, then translate it, before the Premiere, so I decided that it was healthier for me to cut it at 5000 words again ANYWAY, this part is a real post-LD fic, three days away from the 8x01, that's not very original and clever lol (not at all), but it needed to get out of me, badly heee.

MANY, many thanks, hugs and cookies to **Mingsmommy**, for being so utterly fantastic.

I'm done now, you can read the fic XD

**Spoilers** : Up to **7x24 : "Living Doll, **and for** 8x01 "Dead Doll" **(I didn't read any spoilers, though, just saw the promos :) )

Part Two: …the scar remains.

"_Sara...She__'s just a friend, nothing else."_

_Just a friend._

_If __she was just a friend, why hadn't he called to say he wouldn't be home that night, because just a friend needed him?_

¤'''¤ ,,, ¤'''¤ ,,, ¤'''¤

"_Sonia ? Carla ? Sabrina?"_

"_Sara…" she mumbled, without raising her eyes from the page she was reading._

"_I have the feeling that you didn't understand what I meant when I said that you were pissing us off with your stupid books."_

_And before she could react, the boy had taken "Moby Dick" from her hands, and had quickly thrown it to one of his friends next to the door._

"_Hey!" she protested, immediately getting on her feet._

_But the boys were too fast. They threw and caught it in turns, as Sara was desperately tried to get it back. And unable to stop them, she just had to watch as they dropped it in the toilets, which had been used by a kid less than two minutes before._

"_Welcome, Sara."_

And they walked away, laughing hard, leaving her standing alone. And she stared at the cover, which was quickly starting to wave in the mixture of water and urine. It was her fifth copy in two years.

'_I'm going to have this scholarship... I'm going to have this scholarship... I'm going to have this scholarship... I'm going to have this scholarship... I'm going to have this scholarship...'_

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"_Sara..."_

_She didn't know that voice._

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"_Sara...She's just a friend, nothing else."_

_She didn't understand. _

_If __she was just a friend, why was his face distorted by guilt?_

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"Sara...I need you."

_God, she loved him. Passionately, painfully; really painfully. But she loved him._

_Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you..._

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"_Sara..." The voice was cold._

_Her keys fell on the floor._

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"Sara...I think your cake is burning."

"_Holly shit!" She stood up as fast as she could from the couch, and ran to the kitchen, as he started laughing. _

_But there was nothing mean in that sound._

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"_Sara...She's just a friend, nothing else."_

_Of course she was just a friend. _

_She knew him __well enough to know that if there was one thing she didn't have to worry about, it was fidelity.._

_But he hadn't called._

_She wasn't the kind of woman who depended on a man, and he knew it very well. She'd spent too many years taking care of herself without any help, to agree to be led by another human being. _

_She'd spent so many years alone, without any help, without anything to cling to. Everything was taken away from her, everything was stolen from her, books as much as friendships, socks as much as affection._

_But she had him, now. She had 'them'. The only steady plot of land, after having spent her entire life walking on quicksand. He knew it very well._

_And he hadn't called._

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"_Sara, honey, wake up. You're having a nightmare."_

_His fingers in her hair, his lips on her eyelids. His warmth, surrounding her, protecting her._

He was there, he was there. She felt his arms around her, the taste of his skin on her lips, as she pressed her mouth in the crook of his neck.

_He was there, and he loved her; she knew it. She had nothing to fear. Not anymore._

_Then why was she shaking?_

_Please... Please... Please... Please... Please... Please... Please... Please..._

"Sara…" _Sara… Sara… Sara… Sara… Sara…_

Her body was too heavy… She wanted to keep sleeping…

"Hey." _Hey… Hey… Hey… Hey… Hey…_

No, really. She didn't even want to open her eyes. Eyelids too heavy.

"Wake up now, the nap is over." _ver... ver... ver... ver... ver..._

Okay... Okay...

She took a deep breath, as she always did, loving the warm scent of their sheets after a good sleep.

But this time, what she breathed invaded her nose and lungs, and she coughed violently. A sharp pain burst in her chest, and she moaned through her coughs.

And yet, despite the pain, her mind had yet to cooperate. It didn't want to reconnect with reality, remaining foggy, and her limbs seemed to refuse to respond to any action her brain gave them.

It _wasn't_ normal. A shiver of fear ran down her back..

With great difficulty, she eventually managed to open her eyes, heavily. Her vision was blurred and strangely painful, as was her entire body.

I've been drugged...

That's when her eyes managed to focus on something standing right before her.

Shoes.

And everything came back suddenly.

The voice coming from nowhere in the parking lot, quickly followed by a form emerging from the darkness. And it had run to her before she could have even thought or done anything.

And then, there had been an unbearable pain, in every muscle of her body, and she'd found herself on the floor, completely paralysed. And the only thing she had seen, before everything went dark (when she'd been drugged, obviously), was shoes.

The very same shoes she was staring at right now.

Their owner must have crouched down, because soon, legs came into her sight. She tried to raise her head to take a look at her attacker's face, but her cheek fell back on the ground, and she briefly closed her eyes, dazed, aching again, and feeling slightly nauseous.

"Trying to move is pointless, your muscles aren't exactly cooperative right now."

Female voice. A woman. At least her brain managed to make this deduction. She tried to think about who, among the female population, could mean her harm. But everything was confused.

"Whoaryu…" she managed to say in a thick voice, her lips still flabby.

_Move, move, move… _she ordered her limbs, one by one. With painful efforts, she eventually felt her right arm move, as she stretched it, and her fingers slid over a sandy surface.

_Good, palm on the floor, possibility of support to stand up, good._

Using this new support, she managed to move her head away from the ground, and raised it slightly so she could see her face.

She was observing her, slowly bending her head on the left, her eyes strangely blurred.

"I knew you would be perfect…You're taking the exact position."

Sara didn't try to understand what she meant, too busy trying to raise herself a little more with her arm.

"Who…are you…" she repeated with difficulty, her head spinning again.

"Oh, you know me." She answered with a…crazy smile. "We crossed paths, several times."

Her vision was still blurred, but she could see her features well enough to run a search in her memory centre. There was something definitely familiar about her face, without occupying a huge place in her memories. That's when she noticed how weirdly she blinked and Sara remembered..

Grissom's office, three days ago. The janitor she had found inside, and had shared a few polite words.

"Natalie…" she breathed out, her head grazing the ground again.

But she didn't seem to have heard her, or she ignored it. She started to speak again, almost for herself.

"Yes, we crossed paths often… In the street, in the park, in the store…When you took your dog for a walk, when you were shopping, when you went outside to get the mail, when you kissed your lover on the porch…"

Her last remark sent a rush of adrenaline through Sara's veins, and she raised her head again.

"Grissom? What's…"

"Shut up." Natalie cut her off harshly, her dreamy face suddenly gone. "He's going to pay for what he's done."

And she stood up, and by-passed her. Looking up, Sara finally noticed the metallic form above her. _What the…_

That when she heard the noise. The humming sound, the sound of some machine starting up.

_Vrvrvrvr…_

"Natalie… ?"

_**Vrvrvrvrvrvrvrvrvr…**_

She tried to move, she really did. But all she could do was rely on her forearm, the lower part of her body still refusing to cooperate.

_**VrVrVrVrVrVrVrVrVr…**_

Soon, her own screams covered the sound.

OoOoOoOoO

_She was in the kitchen__ preparing a tofu salad when she heard the door open._

_She didn't turn around, but her jaw clenched._

_The footsteps grew closer, and soon, he was by her side. He kissed her temple, as he always did. But this time, she didn't turn her head to give him a smile. No, she stayed focused on her preparation. And she knew then he'd understand perfectly that she was upset. A vibrating tension was suddenly surrounding them._

_The last time there had been such a tension between them was when he'd announced his imminent departure for Massachusetts._

_He softly cleared his throat, before he asked, with a tone which wanted to seem casual:_

"_What are you doing?"_

_Like it wasn't obvious._

"_Tofu salad."_

_He hated tofu. He'd tried, several times, to please her, but there was really nothing he could do about it._

_The silence drew out, unpleasantly._

"_I could have done something else for you but, you know, I wasn't sure you'd be there today." She eventually said by way of explanation, and it was impossible to miss the note of deep annoyance piercing in her voice._

_Another (long) silence, then a sigh: "Sara…"_

_She finally put her knife down, and turned around to face him, a fake smile on her lips: "Grissom?"_

_His face was tensed in a strange expression, mixture of frustration, helplessness, and above all, guilt._

"_Sara...She's just a friend, nothing else."_

_She automatically folded her arms across her chest, and ignored the funny twinge in her right arm. She shook her head, exasperated by his inability to understand her sometimes._

"_Grissom. You didn't call." She coughed, having the unpleasant sensation that something was seeping in her nose, in her lungs._

_He bit his lips, looking guiltier than ever. A thin trail of blood started to drop on his chin._

"I got this scar when my father died." He whispered.

Her face distorted in pain, she stretched her right shoulder, trying to get rid of the shooting twinges running through it. She was now leaning against the work-top, her legs starting to ache, too.

"I know that, you told me. And don't change the subject." She protested, before she moaned.

"You have to open your eyes, Sara." He said gently.

Sara opened her eyes, and immediately closed them again, groaning in pain when she instinctively tried to move.

Don't move, don't move, don't move, don't move…

Her heart had resumed its foolish race beneath her chest, her breaths following the rhythmic. If she didn't calm down right now, she was going to faint again.

When Nathalie had vanished in a cloud of dust, leaving her all alone in the middle of nowhere, her whole body aching, she had panicked, and doing so, she hadn't been able to think anymore.  
She had reacted by instinct, in distress, and her only goal had been to get out of here, to free above all her arm and leg, because the pain was unbearable. She had fidgeted and stirred, her breathing load and unsteady, focusing on her groggy limbs. The pain had been everywhere, and it had hurt, so much, and the giddiness had come back running, quickly followed by the nausea, and after a strong hot flash and an explosion of black spots in her eyes, she had slipped into unconsciousness.

But she won't make the same mistake twice. Even if every inch of her body was screaming for deliverance, she knew she wouldn't be able to do anything if she panicked. Avoiding a panic attack was her first priority right now.

Left cheek on the ground, eyes closed, she tried to stabilize her breaths, because their current anarchy was helping the sand to invade her nose, and she really didn't need that.

Stay still. Don't move, calm down, and try to think.

Only one thing came into her mind, only one image took place behind her closed eyelids.

_Grissom Grissom Grissom Grissom Grissom Grissom Grissom Grissom Grissom Grissom._

"It's going to be okay…" she whispered against the ground. _Grissom Grissom Grissom_. "Itsgonnabekayitsgonnabekayitsgonnabekay…"

She was suddenly trying to hold back a sob, and that simple spasm reverberate in every crushed spot of her body, and she moaned again.

_I can't even cry_, she realized, with dismay and desperation.

And strangely enough, it soothed her.

If she couldn't even cry without having burning blades dug in her flesh, it was pointless to do so, then.

If she continued to let herself be lead by her panic, the pain would increase, and she would panic even more, and would never get out of this prison. So she had to stop it.

Sara calmed down.

Slowly, her breathing became less frequent and sturdier, and her heartbeats slowed down, even if they were still faster than usual.

Having recovered some composure, she opened her eyes, and began to examine her situation more thoroughly.

Moving was still painful, but some movements were tolerable.

With what she could see of the thing crushing her down, she eventually understood that it was a car, obviously turned upside-down.

_How ironic is that?__ I spent so many hours under cars for a great cause, and now I'm going to die crushed under one._

Her sarcasm was back. She couldn't decide if it was a good or bad thing.

What she understood, on the other hand, was that she would never be able to get out of here alone. Her right arm was completely stuck under the scrap heap, as was her left leg, even if the pressure there was less (tearing) strong. Her pelvis was also pressed into the earth. And the soil was way too solid for her to manage to free herself out.

But it wasn't a reason to let the panic take her again.

She would have given anything to be able to get out of this by herself, but she knew there were some situations when she couldn't ignore the fact that she needed help.

It could be her father's wandering hand, a crazy inmate's makeshift weapon, or a car crashed on her.

They would find her. They had found Nick, after all.

_He_ would find her.

They had found each other, after all.

All she had to do was wait, and stay calm.

When the coyote appeared, forcing her to curl up as much as she could (which meant almost nothing), her hopes were shaken.

And when the rain started to fall, it put out the weak and unstable flame of her optimism.

Leaving her in the darkness

OoOoOoOoO

He was like an animal locked in a cage.

Trapped. Unable to get out, unable to get his freedom back. Overwhelmed by dark anger and nameless terror.

He was captive in his own body, captive in this building.

If it had depended on him, he would have jumped in his car hours ago, and would have run through the thousands miles of desert spreading all around him.

Because it was somewhere out there where his freedom was.

His freedom, his oxygen, his heart, his reason for living. Hundreds of metaphors, so clichés, and yet so true. He needed these metaphors.

Because he couldn't name the pain tearing his soul apart with every passing second. Because he couldn't define the nature of what would take possession of him if he didn't find her before it was too late.

There were thousands of ways to transcribe the truth, without never really reach it.

But the truth was that without Sara, Gil was nothing.

And that was why he couldn't leave the lab. According to his colleagues and friends, he wasn't rational.

Of course he was rational. For example, he knew perfectly well that every minute passed here was one more minute during which Sara was in danger of death (danger of death, yes; he refused to even think about the worst). He knew that the storms beating down on the city and its desert area will soon flood the ground where Sara was captive. He had done the experiment to prove it.

He knew that the position of this ground was locked up in Nathalie's mind, but she would never talk.

And yet he had tried to make her speak.

Incidentally, it's since that… 'talk' that he had been declared 'irrational'.

The entire lab was on fire, everybody doing their best to help; every task was taken, no lead was pushed aside. His team was supervising the whole thing at full speed, collecting evidence and testimony, analyzing and scrutinizing.

Finding Sara.

This mantra was on every lip, in every mind. That she was a colleague, a friend, or a reason for living, made no difference.

He was informed of the slightest change, doing as much as he could, but it wasn't enough.

He wanted to do more. He wanted for the world to stop spinning so slowly, for his watch's hand to stop spinning so fast.

He wanted to find her. He had to find her.

When he'd found himself screaming at Hodges because the last analysis had come back useless, he realized how stressed he was .

Even though everybody knew that Hodges was the most annoying lab technician around, on a normal day, he would never have shouted on him like that, especially when the latter was acting more professionally and seriously than ever.

On a normal day, he would never have shouted, period.

That's why he was now in his office, standing in the middle of the room, eyes closed, nose between thumb and index finger. Begging for his migraine to fade away.

Begging for Sara to hold on.

Opening his eyes again, they immediately fell on what was in front of him.

A terrarium.

But it wasn't any terrarium.

"_Did you, uh… put the cocoon in my office?"_

"_Cool, dry, not a lot of light. It seemed to be the best place for it._"

Two months had gone by since that day. But his state of mind was so completely different of the one he had back then, that it felt like it was two decades ago.

That day, he had returned to her after a month of absence, and she'd been so full of life. She was covered with smelly dirt, but it hadn't mattered.

Because he had spent an entire month suffering over the fact that she wasn't _there_ with him, missing her smile and her skin, her laugh and her body.

But this want, this need, even though painful, had been exhilarating. Because he knew that this wait was going to end, that he'd see her again, and that getting her back after all this time would be a delight for his heart and eyes, as he had so beautifully written it in the letter he never had the courage to send.

Today, the want and the need was just painful and unbearable

Because there was no promises of reunion.

And right now, it was the cocoon he was staring at behind the glass that he put all his anger. Because it represented every mistake he had made through the last months.

Instead of sending her a cocoon to let her know that she was in his thoughts and heart day after day, he should have been by her side, listening to her as she sang in the shower, or while she was waiting for her coffee mug to be filled up. Instead of flying away from her for a month, dreaming about the softness of her skin or the smell of her hair, he should have been in their bed, watching her sleep, listening to her deep and sturdy breaths. Instead of spending weeks burning out, withdrawing a little more everyday, he should have been there.

Watching her live.

And knowing that their last week together had been tinted with coldness and irritation, because he hadn't been able to place her above everything else, like she deserved, was breaking his heart, making it bleed abundantly beneath his chest, filling him with furor and endless terror.

And driven by this emotional storm, he acted thoughtlessly.

With an angry shove, he sent the terrarium to the floor loudly breaking it.

Breathing heavily, he stood still for a few seconds, staring at what he had just done.

And then he crouched down, ignoring the crack of his knees, the tugging in his tired back, after more than thirty-six hours without sleep, and found himself hovering over the mess.

_Déja-vu._

His right hand, still slightly shivering, reached out to take a piece of glass, which he turned between his fingers.

And he wondered what would happen if he closed his fist around it. If he squeezed, and squeezed harder, with all his strength, until blood started dropping on the floor. Until the pain allowed him to forget what was happening.

Would Sara appear at his door, as she had so often done?

_Sara, leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, her lips stretched out in her__ serene little smile, asking him if he was ready to go home._

Would she run to him when she saw his bloody hand? Would she wrap a warm towel around his fingers?

_Sara, her lips curled up in her amused little smile, while he was swearing at the hammer which had just hit his thumb._

Would she hold him close, so close, letting him bury his head in the crook of her neck, slipping her fingers through his hair, promising that everything was going to be okay?

_Sara, asleep in front of him, her face half buried in the pillow, her right hand resting on his chest, her lips stretched out in her s__erene little smile._

If he started to physically bleed, would Sara be given back to him?

_Sara, her left hand on his temple, the other holding the blade, her eyes filled with tenderness, her lips stretched out in her loving little smile._

_Sara Sara Sara Sara Sara Sara Sara Sara Sara Sara Sara Sar__a Sara Sara Sara Sara Sara _

"Grissom ?"

Jumping at the sudden call, he opened his eyes.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Hodges was in the room.

"Anything new?" he immediately asked, but his voice lacked emotion. The expression on the other man's face wouldn't have been that morose if he'd come with good news.

He shook his head, confirming Grissom's thoughts: "We heard something break in your office, we were worried. Are you alright?" He knew his question was stupid and useless, but he asked it anyway.

Grissom didn't answer. Looking away, his eyes fell back on the glass he was still holding between his fingers, which he had saved for this time. He dropped it on the floor, before starting to search through the mess.

He eventually found it.

Delicately, he pulled the stick away from the heaps of glasses and other materials, and raised the cocoon to his eyes.

Miraculously it was intact.

And then, just for a second, he allowed himself to hope that wherever she was, his Sara was intact, too.

Because hope was the only thing he had left.

OoOoOoOoO

Sara had always loved water.

When you spent the first twelve years of your life living five minutes away from the ocean, it was understandable.

The beach was her shelter, the ocean her loophole.

She had discovered it when she was barely seven. She had broken her father's favourite beer glass, and he intended to make her understand that it _wasn't_ something to do. She had run in the hall, reached the front-door, escaping to the street. She'd always been too tall for her age, because of her long, skinny legs, but they were at least efficient for running. Her father wasn't far behind her, bawling threats, and she had run, run, run, up to the beach. She had run on the sand, before diving in the cold sea, and she had swum far, far, far away. Her father hated the ocean, she knew it.

He hadn't followed her in the water, but had clearly made her understand that as soon as she was out, she would be punished, before he went away.

After two hours spent floundering in the cold March water, she'd gone home, so frozen that her entire body was shaking violently. Her mom had forbidden her father to come near her, and he'd finally decided that the week she spent in bed with a burning fever was enough.

She could have had a real aversion for water after that, but the opposite happened. She had finally found a way to avoid her father.

Somedays, she would swim as far as she could, thinking that maybe if she swam long enough, she would find a warmer place to live.

At fifteen, Sara had taken a bath for the first time.

There had only been a shower at home, and in every foster care she had ended up in, if there was a bathtub, the kids weren't allow to use it. And the time when her mom had surely bathed her in the sink or in a washbowl was so long ago that she didn't remember anything about it.

But in the last foster home she was placed in before she obtained her scholarship, there was a bathtub. There were only four over the age of twelve, the two other ones being under four. Sophie, the mom, had told them that they could take a bath once a week if they wanted to.

Born with a sharp curiosity, but very wary (she had seen and been through too much to still believe in real kindness), Sara had eventually given it a try.

She would never forget the sensation of her body diving into the steaming water.

It had nothing to do with the sea, or the chlorinated water of the swimming pool. The water was colorless, odorless (she had yet to discover the benefits of bubble baths), and above all, _warm_.

Suddenly, every inch of her skin immersed was warmed up.

She let herself slip in completely, her stomach, her breasts, her shoulders, her hair, feeling as if she was diving into a comfortable cocoon made of warmth. When her ears were in the water, she found again the sensation that the volume of the world was shut down, like it was when she swam under the surface.

Except this time, she couldn't swim, and it was even better. She was in a confined and comforting space. She had to bend her legs, always so long, obliging her knees to stay outside, but it didn't really matter. The only other part of her body above the surface was her nose. But she liked to slide her entire body in the water, loving the fact that she could open her eyes without pain, watching the brown wisps of hair spreading and moving slowly around her, blurred and thick.

She loved to hold her breath as long as she could, completely submersed in the warmth of the bathtub. During these moments, she felt like all her problems disappeared; the water was purifying her body, erasing her scars.

Sara spent four months with this family, and she took a bath every single week. She slid completely under water (except for her knees, of course), closed her eyes, or sometimes let them open, and held her breath, longer every time, focused only on the sensations.

The welfare, the peace, the lightness.

Yes, Sara loved water, her eternal loophole.

Sadly, when water became dangerous -read lethal- in turn, she had no way out left.

OoOoOoOoO

The water was rising, dangerously.

She couldn't deny it anymore. Tirelessly repeating to herself that the ground was inclined enough, that the water was just passing by, was pointless.

The water was rising around her, faster and faster, and if she didn't manage to get herself out of here really soon, she would never make it.

The problem was (other than the big one crushing her) that she had already thought about getting out of here (two or three thousands times, approximately). And every time, she had come to the same, painful conclusion:

She couldn't.

And nobody had found her yet.

_Stop it, they'll come, don't go that way, they will come, they will come. He will come._

But will they be there before the cold water had completely filled up her lungs?

She had begun to try to move again, the ground slightly softened by the rain, but it was exhausting, and the results weren't enough.

But she would never give up and stay still without doing something, when she had the chance to _try_.

That's what she had done all her life, hadn't she? Kept trying, kept breathing, even when the world didn't seem to offer anything bearable anymore.

And all these other times when she had fought to keep her head above water, she had always fought for her and her alone.

Tonight, she was fighting for him.

To stop moving, to stop asking movement from her aching limbs, to lay her cheek down in the muddy water, and let the water rise and swallow her… it seemed so simple and easy that it was almost tempting.

But she knew that if she let go now, she was condemning him to a slow and painful death.

To keep her head above water. The story of her life.

Right now, as she painfully coughed out another draught of water which had slipped in her nose, she wondered if doing it metaphorically hadn't been easier.

Because she had never been that close to literally drowning before.

And it was becoming harder and harder to push back the deep panic rising inside her chest and mind.

Because the truth was that, despite her fake impression of control, she was scared to death.

She felt her body move slightly between car and ground, but that was so insufficient, and her right arm, certainly fractured (if not broken), was restlessly sending wave of shooting pain through her nerves, as she tried to free it up.

She told herself that something positive was going to happen in a minute, just a minute, and that she would get out of here. But there was only one exit door, and this one rhymed with 'last hour'.

And she tried to persuade herself that the water level was not a lethal danger, as long as she carefully kept her head up. But she knew the consequences of storms in the desert, she'd had too many opportunities to see their victims. The flash floods, inundating lowlands within two minutes, discharging enormous masses of water from the mountains, she knew it all.

She could die here. She could die before she had the chance to say goodbye to Grissom, before she had the chance to tell him that she forgave him for everything, that he had been her whole life, and that if they hadn't found each other, she would have spent a lifetime wandering in the dark.

She could really die here without ever seeing him again, and this simple thought was breaking her heart and tearing her soul apart.

The storm outside, the rain falling on the metal of the car and running around her, those sounds had become her background for a long and endless moment now; it could have been forty-five minutes or three hours, she had no clue.

That's why she immediately noticed the change, and ceased any kind of movement for a second.

A rumbling.

Close. Very close. Too close.

A powerful wave of panic ran through her entire frozen and aching body, and adrenaline flowed in her veins.

She started moving her arm again in the dense mud, pulling with all her strength, despite of the pain: "Come on, move! Come on, come on, come on!" Her plea turned into cries of pain.

She thought she had felt something move for a moment. Maybe it was finally her arm slipping two inches toward her, or maybe it was just her broken bones splitting.

She would never really know, because at this instant, the roaring water broke.

End of Part Two.

_TBC_


	3. Part Three a

**A/N**: I guess you can call me the Mangling Author. The One Who Can't Help But Cut Her Fic.  
Here is _half_ of Part Three. Yup, my muse doesn't appreciate much the drama overwhelming the fandom, and she decided to go on strike. No worries, I'm in ferocious negotiations, so I should be able to END this story before…Jorja leaves :(

Thank you so much to **Mingsmommy **for the beta. And for being so freakin' awesome.

And _thank you_ all of you, for the kind and amazing reviews. You guys rock.

**Spoilers**: Through **8x01: "Dead Doll".** Grissom and Sara POVs.

Part Three, a)

Sara was a survivor.

A warrior.

At least, a certain Vera Metz thought so.

Vera Metz was one of those people you were always likely to meet, when a part of your job consisted in questioning witnesses, family members, friends, or any relative. Most of the time, you spoke to plain, ordinary people. But among them, there were those who stepped aside, some way or another. In the mental list Sara had written in her head for those special cases, Vera Metz immediately found her place among the raving lunatics.

"_You hide behind a veil of superiority,_" she had told to Catherine –with whom Sara was investigating that night- when the latter had just been asking about when she had last seen the victim, "_but the truth is that you're afraid; terrified about the simple thought of these people you care so much about discovering how much you need them_."

There must have been some part of truth there, because, Catherine's mouth had opened, then closed, then opened again, before it finally shut, no retort had come.

Sara couldn't help but smile, amused by this unexpected demonstration of 'divination,' and her colleague's sudden confusion.

And then, Vera had turned to face her, scrutinizing her intensely. Sara had raised an eyebrow, waiting for the verdict to fall, still smirking.

"_You are a survivor_." She had finally announced. "_A warrior. You're going to be okay_."

She'd mostly been amused and intrigued by the whole thing, while Catherine seemed clearly distracted.

'_Me, a survivor? A warrior?_' she had thought in reply. '_I'd rather say that I just try not let myself be crushed by every nice thing life sends me._'

But two months later, as the swarming waters broke in full speed, this memory surfaced in her panicked mind.

_I'm a survivor. I will not drown here. I __won't, I won't, I won't._

Next thing she knew, water was filling the car.

It didn't take a second for her head to be completely immersed, and she almost let her panic take over her. But her survival instinct was stronger than anything.

She fidgeted violently, stretching her neck as much as she could, and suddenly, her head was out of the water again, allowing her to take jerky breaths, coughing out what she'd swallowed.

But the water was rising at a phenomenal rate now, and she wouldn't be able to breathe anymore anytime soon. And she realized that, all around her, behind the sound of the roaring water, loud grinding noises where coming from the car.

Knowing how lucky she actually was, she wouldn't be surprise if said car started to sink down a little more, with the strong waters hitting it.

If she wanted to stay alive and get out of here, she had to do it alone. No rescue would come in the next thirty seconds. She was the only one left.

And after all, she might be all she needed.

She continued to struggle, pulling on her stuck leg, again and again, until suddenly, it was released.

A fleeting feeling of victory ran through her, especially when she realized how her possibility for movement had increased. But this feeling quickly faded away, the pain in her arm suddenly intensifying, as the water continued to rapidly rise.

Her arm, she had to free her arm.

_Dive, dive dive!_ After taking a deep breath, where air and water merged, she immersed her head again, eyes wide opened.

And a new memory flashed in her mind. All of sudden, she was back twenty years ago, sliding in the tub's water so she could forget just for a second that a world existed around her.

Except that today, the water was freezing cold, dirty and bustling, and the ominous rumbles of the storm –as well as the alarming grinds of the car- were still audible.

And she was everything but safe.

But through the veil of sand raising and wreathing from the ground, her aching eyes eventually located an object which completely drew her attention, and made her brain's cogs worked at top speed.

The rearview mirror.

Two minutes later, Sara was free.

OoOoOoOoO

_His m__om was crying again in her room next door._

_Sometimes, he would wish that deafness had already overtaken him, so he wouldn't have to hear her anymore._

_He had lived nine years without knowing what his mom's cries sounded like, and he could have lived a lifetime in that blissful ignorance , it would have made no difference.  
During all these years, she'd surely cried, though. Because, in his mind, it was impossible for a human being not to let go from time to time. But, as most of the things she did, she must have done it in silence._

_The first time she had sobbed her heart out in front of him, happened recently enough to still make acid violently burn his stomach at the simple thought of it._

_It had been only a few hours since his dad had passed away, and they'd just come home. Like a zombie, she'd started her daily routine, preparing dinner, though it was way past eleven pm. Gil had stayed still and quiet at the doorframe, watching her as she was moving. Then, she had opened the cupboard, and by reflex, had taken three plates out of it._

_Gil's brain and mind must have been__ still foggy, because next thing he knew, he was staring at his mum on the floor, her entire body shaken by racking and terrifying sobs._

_  
And he'd been so…shocked! Of course, it had quickly broken his heart (a little more), but __astonishment, pure and simple, had been his first feeling._

_He didn't know what to do, he didn't know what to say. He wouldn't have been able to say anything at the time, anyway, considering she wasn't in condition to see his hands nor his lips._

_So, feeling more useless than ever, he'd knelt beside her, and after a moment, had taken her hand in his, not knowing what else he should do._

_But she had kept crying._

_Like she was doing tonight. So loudly that the sound was coming through the wall and was filling Gil's bedroom, so much so he felt like she was there with him._

_Maybe it was because she couldn't hear herself. Nothing came to put a limit to her sobs. Not able to hear their sound, she needed to feel them vibrate in every inch of her body, in the mattress, through the walls._

_And on his bed, staring at an invisible spot on the ceiling, Gil, on the other hand, didn't cry anymore._

_He, whose eyes had always so easily watered, loving the heartwarming embrace of his mom, or the reassuring words of his dad; the cakes he cooked with her used to cheer him up, the walk he took with him, those father and son moments, had been comforting to him, providing him an endless feeling of safety._

_But tonight, there was no comforting arms, no reassuring words._

_And why keep crying __when there was nobody left to hear his pain anymore?_

_Gil was way too much a stoic to share his grief with the walls._

_So Gil didn't cry anymore._

_But his mom, God help her, she couldn't stop._

'_Where are you, Daddy?'_

OoOoOoOoO

"Where is she, Catherine?"

"She's a survivor."

As his eyes scanned the endless horizon spreading all around him, feeling more desperate than ever, Grissom tried, and failed, to find comfort in her words.

He'd been so sure that once they would find the car, _he_ would find _her_.

Because she would have held on, because she would never have stopped fighting.

Of the two of them, she was without a doubt the bravest one. She kept walking through every ordeal life put in her way, never giving up, becoming stronger and stronger.

He, on the contrary, tried somehow or other to stay alive through life's ordeals, but in the end, he was just more weakened than anything. A little more blasé, a little more withdrawn, a lot more hurt.

And this new ordeal was the worst he had ever faced.

Because he would never be able to forget that it had all happened to Sara because of him. Let-alone forgive himself for it.

If what he dreaded the most happened, he would never stand up again.

And for the time being, when his heart should have been filled with endless admiration for the only woman he had ever loved, and for what she'd managed to accomplish during the last few hours, he just felt broken, and completely lost.

A part of him already giving up, as he always did.

But deep in his chest, an aching hope kept making his heart bleed. And in his blood, the same words were endlessly carved.

_Where are you, Sara?_

OoOoOoOoO

Life could be strange.

Sara had spent the twelve first years of her life swimming as far and as long as she could from her house, in the hope that at the end of this long-drawn out race, she would find a land of refuge, solid and dry, on which she'd be welcomed.

For twelve hours, she had been roaming on solid and dry lands, seeking a watering-place, in absence of any other kind of salvation.

It's been a long time since she had hoped for a road.

It's been a very long time since she had hoped for anything, period.

She was alone; it was just her, no sudden rescue, no miraculous help, just her.

At first, she had hurt. Everywhere, especially where her arm was broken. Her torn shirt was now a makeshift sling. She had wrapped the rest of it around her head when it was still wet, trying to keep the refreshing coolness as long as she could.

Focusing on the pain kept her alert, stopped her mind from drifting away, and kept her moving, towards any road.

And then, she had been thirsty. So thirsty that this need had become more powerful than the pain shooting through her whole body, with every step she took. Focusing on the thirst stopped her body from falling, and kept her moving, towards any watering-hole.

Now, she didn't feel the pain anymore, nor the thirst. She knew that all those nasty feelings were still there, hidden behind a weird fog, which seemed to disconnected her from everything. And this fog was scaring her.

So she was reciting her multiplication tables. To force her brain to work, her mind to focus on something. It was stopping her from sinking into a heavy and liberating –but bad, really, _really_ bad- sleep, and was keeping her moving, 'running' away from the shadow of Death.

But if numbers were escaping her lips, whispering the calculations, it appeared that her mind had eventually detached itself from the exercise, as it had detached from everything else. What was now filling her head was a litany, which she repeated again and again and again and again.

It made her lift her right foot, put it on the ground, then lift the left one, put it on the ground, and so on, even if she was moving slower and slower. It forced her to stand up when she fell.

To keep moving, to keep moving. To never stop, to never give up.

She could make it through alive. Of course, it was her and her alone in the middle of this arid desert, but perhaps she would be saved eventually…

To keep living, to keep living…

To see him just one last time. Grissom…

She was so dehydrated, so disoriented, so _out_ of touch with reality, that she could almost hear his voice: "_Keep living, Sara… It will be all over soon…_"

Yes, everything will stop very soon.

She will be rescued, her arm will be plastered, her wounds dressed, and never, ever again she will have to think about that. Everything will be swallowed up in oblivion, she will resume her life exactly where it had stopped, with him, and it will be all right, yes, it will be all right…

To keep moving, to keep living.

If only…if only the ground would stop writhing, she could start walking again…

But the ground, and the rest of the landscape, kept shaking and distorting.

Soon, she felt the burning sand under her fingers, and realized that she had fallen again. But this time, no mantra could make her stand up.

Because her entire body was abandoning her, betraying her, forcing her mind to give up, forcing her to surrender.

She was slipping, slipping, slipping…

In a last jolt of imagination, melding with memories and hallucinations, she felt like the sand on which her body was sagging was in reality the mattress of their bed.

And the imperceptible warm breeze blowing on her cheek was Grissom's breath, as he softly whispered in her ear: "_Everything's all right, Sara… You can sleep now_."

For as long as she'd been in love with him (forever, then), she had always done everything he'd asked. Once again, she did what he said.

And she barely felt the sad melancholy running through her entire body and soul, as she gave herself in to the warmth and the peace.

All she had wanted to do was to keep living.

OoOoOoOoO

Sara was on the ground.

Curled up in a way he had observed too many times –and yet not enough-, as she'd slept next to him.

Bruised, and frighteningly still.

He didn't hear what the paramedics and his friends were shouting. He was mesmerized by this vision, darkening the whole world around him, shutting down its volume. Allowing him to feel only the pain bursting in his chest; to see nothing but her, only her, broken on the ground.

Was this how dying felt?

A dark abyss, swallowing you so fast, dragging you in a terrifying and endless fall.

Still, the heretic beatings of his heart against his ears were concrete evidence of the fact, well, he was still alive.

And yet, as his eyes couldn't leave the seemingly lifeless body of the woman he loved more than anything else in the world, Grissom died inside.

OoOoOoOoO

He took her hand.

Not only because he couldn't do anything else, but also because he_didn't know_ what else to do.

After all, this was the only move he always managed to make during times of crisis, wasn't it?

To take her hand, hoping with all his will that she'd feel his touch, wherever her spirit was. Praying for his silent and painful calls, emanating from every pore of his skin, to reach her.

_Open your eyes, Sara. Please, please, __**please**__, open your eyes, open your eyes, open your eyes, open your eyes._

Sara opened her eyes.

And even if the world remained loudly silent, colors reappeared, and air filled up his lungs again.

Was it how returning to life felt like?

Being stopped in your fall, grasped by the core, before being violently pulled towards the surface. Towards the light.

Towards her.

OoOoOoOoO

She had fallen.

She had let herself slip into the comforting warmth, unable to resist any longer this delicious call.

And she had felt good, so good.

No more fatigue, no more grueling thirst, no more pain. Only peace and restfulness

And Grissom.

**G.R.I.S.S.O.M**, to be exact.

It was funny. She still felt like she was floating, and yet, it seemed like those letters were drawing in her mind. Or before her eyes, maybe?

After the letters of his name, it's in his gaze that she lost herself.

Was it how dying felt like?

Or was it how returning to life felt like?

Him, him, him, always him.

Life could be so nasty and deceptive sometimes, she didn't know the difference anymore. But it didn't matter.

He could just be a vision in which her soul was finally resting, after years and years of fights. Or he could be really there beside her, giving her something to cling to, to climb up towards the surface, towards the light, towards him. She didn't care.

Because he was there. He had found her.

And that was all that mattered.

_TBC_


End file.
